On Burning Out

Oops, I Did It Again.

Photo by Dewang Gupta

I did it again.

I guess we all have our weaknesses. Our obsessions, our proclivities, the holes we always seem to stumble into no matter how well we think we’ve cemented them over.

For me, it’s pushing when I should be letting rest.

More specifically, it’s the belief that no matter what else is going on in my life, no matter how much I’m struggling or how tired or morose or uninspired I feel, I should be writing.

I’ve hinted at this before, though never said it outright. In 2023, I told you I’d be taking a lengthy break from Substack because I was approaching burnout. What I did not tell you was that, at the time and alongside writing to you here, I was also attempting to write a book. This was supposed to be a realistic novel called Alexandru (the Romanian version of the first name Alexander), which would present the life story of a boy with humble beginnings, who eventually immigrates to Germany, changes his name and becomes a bigshot writer. It would have been many things: the first full-length work I’d have ever finished, my first piece of fiction composed in my native tongue, and maybe, why not, my literary debut. I had high, no, huge hopes for it.

Naturally, I did not finish it. I couldn’t. Early on I realized I was way out of my depth. I had not taken the time to plan ahead, so the novel had no structure. But more importantly, I had pushed myself too far again.

This came after, a year before, I had gone through a massive spell of writer’s block because, you guessed it, I’d pushed myself nearly to the breaking point by trying to write newsletter pieces while also studying for a legal exam.

Looking back on all the years that have passed since I started writing seriously in the late days of autumn of 2019, I have been doing this exact thing every year. Pushing myself too far, not listening to my body and the desperate cries of the little person inside my mind who writes all my stories.

Naturally, then, it standa to reason that this year, it was bound to happen again.

In early summer, I finished the book I’ve been working on for nearly a year (working on it even though I also needed to study for the most brutal exam I’ve ever taken). I then spent a few days drafting a synopsis and a book proposal, and sent the manuscript to two major local publishers.

What did I do afterwards?

Did I rest?

Did I revel in my own awesomeness and allow myself to feel good about what I had just accomplished?

Did I even stop to take in that special moment, the moment when my index finger clicked the left mouse button to close the Word doc which contained the final version of the manuscript for the last time?

No. Nuh-uh. Absolutely not.

I started another fucking book.

This time, I did not get stuck. I planned away, did my research, and in close to three months wrote a 17k word first draft of a new novella called Cezar, about a blind dog and the criminal who becomes his newest master.

When I set out to edit it, the irresponsible use of my mental resources these past few months finally caught up with me. I found that my creative well had dried up. No matter how much I tried, no matter how many passages in the book evoke more complex thoughts than those already written, no matter the potential I can see and feel this book has, I could not in any way bring myself to further develop it.

So after mulling it over for a few excruciating, humbling days, I decided to shelf it. I closed the printed manuscript, put it away next to my pile of unread books, and surrendered to the chaotic whims of the universe.

I have not written a single word in over a week (excepting, of course, this little missive to you), and it feels kind of weird. Like, who am I, now that I am not writing? And when will I start again? And what, pray tell, will I be working on when I do?

Will I continue developing this new book? Will I write more of my patented personal essays I used to publish on this Substack?

For the first time in a long, long while, maybe ever, I don’t know.

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